Another Fucking Poem about Drinking at Vesuvio
for Hugh Blanton
The North Beach poets sit at the bar
and drink at all hours
in their funny hats and coats,
as if there were nothing else in the world
that ever needed doing.
The Anarchist girl sits alone at a table
drinking dark beer and reading a book
about the rise of techno fascism.
And me, I’m forever on the run
from death and her henchmen,
with a glass of wine at my favorite
table in the back corner of the balcony.
I tear my little poems from the jagged
teeth of the dark the best I can,
as the pretty girls in Kerouac Alley
sit at little round tables smoking
cigarettes and drinking beer.
I gaze down upon them
and pretend I am in Paris.
I’ve never been to Paris
and It’s looking like I might
not ever make it,
even though I’d like to.
Some people do things like go to Paris
and others muddle through life
one moment to the next
and I figure that’s just the way
it is and there’s no sense in getting
upset.
There’s still some poetry to be mined here
despite what the years have taken.
I lean back and bask in the feel of it,
thinking of all those suckers in Paris
who will never get the chance.
Horror Sleaze Trash 